City of Gold

by Len Deighton

  ‘I hardly know him.’

  ‘You told me you have drinks with him every week.’

  ‘Everyone does; his apartment is an open house.’

  ‘Open house, eh? That would be a smart move for a Nazi spy.’

  She looked at him: at one time she’d thought these earnest stares were a sign that he was attracted to her. But since then she’d decided that Solomon was too self-centred to fall in love with anyone. Those looks he gave her may have been demands for respect and admiration, but they were not the masculine pleas for respect and admiration that constitute a prelude to love. Solomon was a loner. ‘I thought you were more sophisticated than that, Solomon,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t go with closed ears,’ he said.

  ‘I shall report to you every last little drunken exchange I hear.’

  ‘Prince Piotr tells everyone he has an American shortwave radio. I want you to look at it carefully and tell me what name it has and which wavebands it can receive.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Everyone in this town knows that there is some big security leak. The British top brass are running round in small circles trying to find out where Rommel is getting his information about the British strengths and positions.’

  ‘Where would Prince Piotr get such secrets?’ she said scornfully.

  He wasn’t going to debate with her. ‘We have to look into the future, Peggy. Whatever happens between the Germans and the British armies, we Jews will still have to defend ourselves against the Arabs. To do that we must have guns. Violence is the only language an Arab understands, Peggy. There will be no negotiations when the day comes. It will be a fight to the death.’

  ‘Whose death? Do you know how many million Arabs there are?’

  He dismissed this with a flick of the fingers and a deep inhalation on his cigarette. She wondered how much of this stirring rhetoric he believed. ‘Are you familiar with the word tzedaka, Peggy?’

  ‘Charity?’

  ‘My father used to say it means, if we Jews don’t look after ourselves, we can be sure no one else will.’ He blew smoke in a studied way, as if demonstrating that he had his feelings completely under control. ‘You’re an old-timer, Peggy. We both know Cairo is a snake pit of conspiracy and betrayal. There are so many factions fighting for control of their particular little backyard that no one can see the true picture.’

  ‘Except you?’ She tried not to show her resentment at the way he liked to call her an old-timer. He only did it to ruffle her.

  ‘Except Tel Aviv.’

  There was a knock at the door. Four knocks sounded in rapid succession, and in a rhythm that denotes urgency in any language.

  ‘I’m busy!’

  Despite this response, the thin servant came into the room and said without pause, ‘There are soldiers, sir, searching all the houseboats.’

  ‘British soldiers?’ Solomon asked calmly.

  ‘Yes, British soldiers.’

  ‘Yes, British soldiers,’ said another voice and a man in the uniform of a British captain pushed the servant aside with a firm and practised movement of arm and body. He was in his middle thirties, a clean-shaven man with quick eyes. ‘And Egyptian policemen too. This is my colleague, Inspector Khalil, should you want to know more.’ He ushered a slim young Egyptian police officer past him into the room. The Egyptian was dressed in the black wool winter uniform with shiny buttons. Despite the deference shown to him, his presence was only to keep the legal niceties intact.

  Solomon got to his feet. ‘My name is Solomon al-Masri.’ He put on a calm and ingratiating smile. ‘May I offer you a drink, major?’ He didn’t ask Khalil, politely assuming that he observed the Muslim strictures on alcohol.

  ‘Captain actually. Captain Marker. Field Security Police. No, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Captain, is it? How stupid of me. I can never remember your British rank insignia. Your face is familiar. Have I seen you at the Turf Club, Captain Marker?’

  ‘No, I’m not a member,’ said Captain Marker, without giving an inch. Marker’s voice was soft and educated but his eyes were hard and unblinking. Solomon had spent a lot of his life under British rule, but for the moment he could not decide whether this man was one of the regular soldiers from BTE – British Troops in Egypt, the peacetime occupying army – or one of the senior British policemen who’d been put into khaki and sent here, there, and everywhere to cope with the flood of serious crime that the war had brought to the Middle East.

  ‘The Sweet Melody Club, perhaps?’ said Solomon. It was a joke; the Melody was a notorious place where every evening’s performance ended with the Egyptian national anthem, to which British soldiers bellowed obscene words. A riot always ensued. Lately the band had been protected behind barbed wire.

  Marker looked at him for a moment, and then sniffed. ‘Inspector Khalil’s men will search your boat.’ Through the wooden bulkheads and deck came noises made by men opening and closing cupboards and containers. Solomon recognised the sounds as those made by police specially trained to search carefully and thoroughly. Sometimes the British brought men who were encouraged to break furniture and chinaware and do as much damage as possible.

  ‘Of course,’ said Solomon. ‘Search. Yes. I insist. Please treat this boat in the same way as any other. I want no special treatment. It is my privilege to cooperate with the security forces in any way possible.’

  ‘May I see your papers, miss?’ said Captain Marker. He was looking at Peggy.

  Solomon answered. ‘I can vouch for Peggy West. She is one of Cairo’s fairest and firmest fixtures.’

  Captain Marker still looked at Peggy as if he’d not heard Solomon. ‘Is that your 1938 Studebaker parked under the trees, Miss West?’

  ‘Mrs West. No, I don’t have a car. I walked here.’

  ‘It’s a chilly night for a stroll. Do you have your passport, Mrs West?’

  ‘I don’t have it with me. It’s at the Hotel Magnifico. I live there.’

  Solomon said, ‘She drops in on me once a week. I let her have recent English newspapers. We were just saying good night.’

  ‘Recent newspapers?’ said Marker raising his eyes to give all his attention to Solomon.

  ‘The planes come via Gibraltar – sometimes ships too. One of the senior customs officials lets me have them.’

  Solomon turned away from the Englishman’s stare. He got his passport from a drawer and handed it to the captain. The cover announced that it was a US passport.

  ‘We’re in the war together now, Captain,’ said Solomon as he passed the American passport to him. ‘We’re friends and allies now, right?’

  Marker studied the cover, then the photo and then looked at Solomon. The passport was in the name of Solomon Marx. ‘We always have been, Mr Marx.’ He gave him the passport back. ‘Thank you, sir. My men will not take long. Since you’re just saying good night, I’ll take you back to your hotel, Mrs West. You’ll be able to formally identify yourself.’

  She hesitated but then agreed. There was no alternative. It was wartime. Egypt was a sovereign state and technically a neutral in the war, but any order of the British military police here was law.

  When Peggy West, Captain Marker and all the policemen had departed, Solomon sat down with a large bottle of beer. His manservant shed a measure of his deference. ‘What was that all about, then?’ he asked Solomon. The servant was in fact his partner, a Palestinian Jew named Yigal Arad. He’d lived amongst Arabs all his life and had no difficulty in passing himself off as one. For a year or more he’d been an officer of the Haganah, an armed Jewish force. He collected a British army commendation and a gunshot wound in the knee from a Châtellerault machine gun, when guiding British troops across the Syrian border to attack the Vichy French forces the previous summer. The 7.5mm round, now a bent and twisted talisman, hung from a cord round his neck.

  ‘What was it all about?’ repeated Solomon as he thought about the question. ‘The British simply want to let us know they have their eye on us.
’

  Solomon was the leader of this two-man Cairo mission. Solomon al-Masri – or to those who knew him well, or got a look at his US passport: Solly Marx – had also been born in Palestine, the son of a Russian Jew. His father had lost all his relatives in a pogrom and had never come to terms with the strange and sunny land to which he’d escaped, except to marry a young Arab woman who gave birth to Solomon and five other children. When his father became bedridden, it was Solomon who’d found ways of keeping the family clothed and fed. Some of those ways he now preferred to forget about. That’s why he had taken the first opportunity to leave his homeland. Never now would he discuss his early life, and yet the key to all Solomon’s thoughts and actions could be found in the pity and disgust he felt for that child he’d once been.

  ‘That’s all?’ Yigal persisted.

  Solomon yawned. It was an affectation, like his languid manner and the fictitious stories about his father, and the sumptuous Cairo mansion which he liked to pretend had been his family home. ‘There are not many real secrets in this town. We must let the British discover some of our little secrets in order to keep our big secrets intact.’

  ‘She always wants unsweetened coffee.’

  ‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to get fat.’

  ‘At home we drink it sweet. Unsweetened coffee is only served for funerals.’

  ‘Because your people are all peasants,’ said Solomon without rancour. ‘Here in Cairo people are more sophisticated.’

  ‘Will you confide in the woman?’ He poured a beer for himself.

  ‘Peggy West? I might have to.’

  ‘And take her with us when we leave?’

  ‘You know that would be impossible.’

  ‘She’ll talk.’

  Solomon looked at him but didn’t reply.

  ‘She’ll talk, Solomon. The British will squeeze her, and she’ll tell them everything she knows.’

  ‘Don’t rush your fences, Yigal. I’ll tell her nothing until I’m quite certain that she’s not already spying for the British.’

  ‘Peggy West?’

  ‘Figure it out for yourself. The British must be curious about the prince for the same reasons we are. Peggy was here before the war. She must be registered with the embassy, with the Hotel Magnifico as her permanent address. It would be sensible of them to ask Peggy to report on what the prince is saying at his parties.’

  ‘You have a devious mind, Solomon.’

  ‘I am logical. That is why Tel Aviv gave me this job.’

  ‘You are cynical, and that is quite different.’

  ‘All men serve two masters; that is human nature.’

  ‘Two masters?’

  ‘We both know British soldiers who salute the union jack but who are also Jews. I know some British soldiers who even combine loyalty to their king with a faith in Soviet communism. Prince Piotr no doubt has a love for Mother Russia, but he detests Uncle Stalin and might well be helping the Germans. We know proud Egyptians who faithfully obey the British. It is a lucky man indeed who works for only one master.’

  ‘You like riddles; I like straight answers.’

  ‘There are no straight answers, Yigal.’

  ‘You have avoided my questions. Eventually you will have to confide in Peggy West. When we leave what will you do?’

  ‘I know how to handle such things, Yigal.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll silence her?’

  ‘It will be all right.’

  Despite Solomon’s angry tone, Yigal persisted. ‘She’s one of us. She’s Karl’s wife. I’ll have no part in killing her. Don’t say I haven’t warned you.’

  Solomon gave him a cold smile: ‘Teach us, Lord, to meet adversity; but not before it arrives.’

  ‘Spare me another of your lessons from the Talmud.’

  ‘Why do you scorn the lessons of the Talmud?’ asked Solomon affably. He was pleased at what looked like a chance to change the subject.

  ‘Would it teach me about your devious schemes for Peggy West?’

  Solomon sipped his beer. For a moment it seemed as if he would not reply. Then he said, ‘Many years ago there lived a scholar who asked an old rabbi what could be learned from the Talmud. The rabbi told him of two men who fell down a chimney. One man arrived at the bottom dirty, while the other arrived clean. Is that the lesson of the Talmud? the scholar asked. No, replied the old rabbi, listen to me: the dirty man looked at the clean man and thought himself clean. Is that the lesson of the Talmud? asked the scholar. No, replied the rabbi, for the dirtied man looked at his own hands and seeing them sooty knew he’d been dirtied. This then is the lesson of the Talmud? said the scholar. No, said the rabbi. Then what am I to learn from the Talmud? asked the scholar. The rabbi told him: You will learn nothing from the Talmud if you start by believing that two men can fall down a chimney and not both be dirtied.’

  4

  They’d given Jimmy Ross his predecessor’s quarters. He was in the massive Citadel of Muhammad Ali, which overlooked the whole city. In this ancient fortification the British garrison had long made their home. Within its bounds there were a military hospital, swimming pool, tennis courts, stables and extensive parade grounds. He’d been assigned a comfortable bedroom plus cramped sitting room in what – until the families had been evacuated – had been the army’s married quarters.

  Jimmy Ross dined alone in his room that night. It was not considered unusual. Senior SIB personnel were a law unto themselves, everyone knew that. In fact, many of the other officers stayed well clear of these ‘secret policemen’. He got a decent meal of stewed chicken, rice and steamed pudding with jam. Then he systematically sorted through Cutler’s kit and his own. He must get rid of that kit bag. With the name Ross still faintly legible on the side of it, it was incriminating evidence. There were a few other things. He tore from his books the pages on which he’d written his name and flushed them down the toilet. He scraped his name from the back of a shoe brush and tore off some Ross name tags from his underclothes.

  His worst shock came when he tried on the battle dress from Cutler’s suitcase. He’d not calculated on Cutler’s having such long arms. Battle dress was the same for all ranks, so he’d reckoned on wearing Cutler’s top with his own trousers. But the khaki blouse did not fit him. There was no getting away from it; it looked absurd. He could, of course, continue to wear the corporal’s uniform, but there was always the chance that some bright copper would take note of the fact that the dead prisoner from the railway train just happened to be a corporal too. He slept on his problems and woke up rested. It was a wonderful sunny morning. It gave him renewed vigour and renewed hope.

  He didn’t want to tackle the Bab-el-Hadid barracks alone. A new sentry might well make difficulties for someone in a shabby corporal’s uniform. He phoned his office and spoke with Marker. ‘I’ve got some things to do in town,’ he said airily. ‘Give the Stanhope girl my new pass and have her bring it to me at lunchtime. I’ll be in the bar in Groppi’s.’ The famous Groppi was the only restaurant he’d ever heard of in Cairo.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Marker. ‘I don’t think there is a bar there; I’ll say the restaurant at about one o’clock. Is that the Groppi Rotunda or Groppi Garden?’

  For a moment Ross was floored. ‘Which do you recommend?’

  ‘Alice will have her car, of course. She could pick you up and take you to Soleiman Pasha; that’s the one I always prefer.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Ross. ‘Groppi in Soleiman Pasha then.’ Marker had jumped to the conclusion that Ross intended to use the girl as a guide and driver around the town. Well, that was a good idea. It might prove very convenient.

  ‘Tell her to pick me up from here at twelve noon,’ said Ross. ‘Any sign of the brigadier?’

  ‘He’s away duck shooting. Back next week his office says.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘There was one other thing, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That fellow died.’

  ‘The prisoner?
’

  ‘Yes, I forget his name for the moment. But the man you escorted. He died.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Heart attack. I don’t know the drill for that sort of thing. I suppose there will be a post-mortem and some sort of enquiry. They will probably need you to give evidence.’

  ‘Did he die in hospital?’ said Ross. He could hear himself breathing too loudly and capped the phone.

  ‘The pathology wallahs will sort all that out,’ said Marker.

  Ross didn’t like the sound of it.

  ‘One other thing, sir. Did the prisoner not have any kit?’

  ‘He was arrested on the run,’ said Ross. ‘That’s why he was in civvies.’

  ‘I thought that might be it,’ said Marker. ‘I just didn’t want to take a chance. You get next of kin kicking up a fuss about personal effects sometimes. Can be a nuisance.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Next of kin! There was no worry about his next of kin; he had none. But what about Cutler? Suppose there was some loose end in Cutler’s life that would come home to haunt him? Then he had an idea so obvious that he kicked himself for not thinking of it all along. The army issued everyone with a ‘housewife’: a packet of needles and pins, with a selection of buttons and thread. He must still have his somewhere in his kit. Yes. He got a razor blade and started cutting the crowns from Cutler’s uniform blouse.

  ‘If you are my personal assistant, we’d better get to know each other,’ he said.

  Alice Stanhope smiled at him as if he was the first man ever to take an interest in her.

  For a moment, Jimmy Ross was disconcerted. She seemed to see right through him. He supposed there were plenty of men making advances to her; she was so lovely. Beautiful, but not in the flashy way that was to be seen all around them in this fashionable eating place. Alice Stanhope was tall, with long blonde hair and a clear complexion. Her face was still rather than animated, but her eyes suggested an artful sense of humour and a quick brain. Only a very beautiful woman could have shone in the severe clothes she wore. This, thought Ross, was the sort of outfit a middle-class English mother would consider suitable for a daughter going out into the wicked world: a checked wool suit and pale blue twin set with pearls. On her wrist she wore an expensive gold watch – a twenty-first birthday present, no doubt – but there were no rings on her fingers.